The Pale Door
Why does the ink move when you are not looking at it? Stanislaw Nowicki stood in the seventh stairwell of the Amber Stair, his hand resting on the banister, feeling the grain of the wood worn smooth by a century of desperate feet. The wind outside was a physical thing, a heavy, soot-laced hand that shoved against the windowpanes and threatened to tear the washing from the lines where it flapped...
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